Sine iusititia, confusio
by ThorneofAcre
Summary: After waking up from a five year long coma, would Nick be able to recover all that he has lost?   Eventual Nick/Renard, and past Nick/Juliette.  Minor character:Juliette's, death.
1. Prolugue

Title: Sine iusititia, confusio. (Without order, Chaos)  
><strong>Author: <strong>Thorne of Acre.  
><strong>Pairings: <strong>Past Nick/Juliette. Eventual Nick/Renard.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Five years is a long time. A lot of changes can happen in five years. So will Nick be able to cope on waking up from a coma, after five years?  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Contains mentions of head injury, coma, and trauma. Also Minor character (Juliette) dies. So if the former might act as a trigger to you or if the latter puts you off, please don't read this.  
><strong>Author's Note: <strong>This is a work in progress. Updates would be somewhat regular, hopefully. Feedback is always appreciated.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sine iusititia, confusio<strong>_

_If the sky should mingle with the earth and the sea with the sky, the Sun and Erebus, light and shade, earth and heaven, then the four constituent elements of the universe would fight - hot and dry, cold and wet. All things would be finally confounded into the Chaos of old, when the world did not yet know the mind of God. When Queen Justice is absent in hiding, a similar confusion reigns in earthly things._

Prologue.

Day was approaching.

The sky was a soft orange, the first rays of the sun filtering through the clouds and driving the swirling fog away. It was still early, the morning crowd of commuters and cars not having invaded the streets yet, the city quiet and peaceful, as if waiting for something to happen, for its inhabitants to realize that another day had dawned and for life to restart itself.

But for the figure leaning against the glass walls on the 22nd floor of the hospital, the day seemed to hold no promise.

Renard was tired. Completely drained.

Running meetings with councils, human ones as captain through the day, and wesen ones as regnant at night, for the whole past week was taking its toll on the man.

That was why, after another gruelling seven hours of politics and diplomatic bullshit; he had chosen to retreat here, instead of going to his cold empty house.

To Nick's room.

His refuge. Sanctuary.

If he closed his eyes and really concentrated, he could feel the faint thrum of Nick's presence in his mind. An awareness which he had always considered a burden: to be able to feel the thoughts and pains of his all those he reigned over, which had conversely become such a necessity to him now.

A lifeline, grounding him to reality, for the past five years.

Five years, devoid of Nick's voice, his presence, his touch, his brief smile, his intelligent eyes.

It had been five long years since the blast, five years of watching Nick lay there, within reach, yet so very far away.

The initial months had been full of hope; he had spent almost all his free time in Nick's room, hoping, praying, wishing for him to wake up from the coma. After six months of sitting by his bedside, clutching his hand, jerking into alertness at the slightest hitch of breathe; the notion of his ever doing so had become a distant possibility.

After a year, it had almost faded away.

The doctors had wanted to pull the plug, to stop the machines and let him starve, die; after two years.

Renard had steeled his heart into signing the no objection letter. He had even almost done it.

Almost.

Until that night, the one before the day he would have given the doctors the go ahead to remove Nick from life support, Renard had sat and stared at Nick's sleeping face for several hours, committing it to memory, afraid he wouldn't be able to do so again.

That was when, mind consumed of thoughts and memories of the times they had spent together, Nick oblivious of who and what he was to Renard, yet enough for the older man, who was happy only to be near his soul mate, his companion, and want nothing more; that Renard had felt the pulse of Nick's presence in his mind.

It had been faint, barely present, fluttering weakly.

It had been the most beautiful thing Renard had felt in his entire life.

He had clung to it like a dying man clings to his last breathe, which Nick had technically speaking been to Renard.

His last chance at an actual life, real happiness.

Battling the insistent doctors had been difficult but he had pulled a lot of favours from a lot of people, and had managed to get Nick a small room right at the topmost floor of the hospital. He had paid for the facilities personally when the period of time of waiting had been officially over and the city had decided to halt the funds.

Hope had been a constant companion after that, the presence in his mind forming a solid foundation for it, but months had passed again. Nothing had happened.

No miraculous awakenings, no sudden realizations, nothing.

Now, five years later, Renard had almost given up. But still he couldn't bear the thought of letting Nick go. Of feeling the familiar presence slip away from his mind.

It was all he had left.

He came here always when the outside world became too hostile, too cold and empty to bear.

Just sitting beside the sleeping form, talking to him about things, telling him all that he had never told him when he was awake, wishing he _had_ told him, apologizing to him over and over and over, until there were no more words, no more tears left; Renard felt just a little more alive after such meetings.

A little more like a person and a little less like a machine.

Not many things could make Sean Renard, Police Captain of Portland city, surrender and admit defeat. But five agonizing, tormenting, distressing years had. They had left him broken, desperate; a shell of the man he once was. Watching Nick always be so near to touch and still remain so out of reach, like some damned apple of Eden, Renard had almost completely given up on hope.

That was why Renard was not a little surprise when, on turning around to face the bed, he realized that the grey open eyes didn't have their usual blank expression in them.

* * *

><p>~tbc.<p> 


	2. Revival

**Disclaimer:**Forgot about this before, but seriously if I owned Grimm, it wouldn't be on break. And Nick/Renard would be canon. :P  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong>I tweaked a couple of details from the prologue. The first: Renard is not Mayor. He is still very much a police captain. This is for two reasons: It didn't fit the purpose of my story. And secondly a mayor has to be elected, that's not bad ass. And Renard=bad ass.  
>Also he lives in a mansion, not a condo. Though in my opinion condos are more bad ass, Portland is more of a mansion place than a condo. So large sprawling 19th century mansion it is. (if such houses don't exist in Portland, then I plead my right to artistic license.)<p>

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 1: Revival<span>.

Renard moved cautiously nearer to the bed, his heart hammering loudly against his chest.

It couldn't be.

And yet…

Renard reached Nick's immediate bedside, and slowly, as if afraid that with any sudden movement he would break the dream like bubble and be jolted back into reality, he reached out and took Nick's flaccid hand in his.

The grey eyes kept looking at him, and Renard could see himself reflected in them wholly, as if Nick was staring not at him, but through him, right to his very soul. Confusion was swirling in those twin orbs and Renard realized that if he was indeed awake, Nick would be more than a little disoriented.

He gently pressed Nick's hand in his own, applying only minimal pressure, almost afraid of hurting the weak skeletal hand grasped in his own. He peered into Nick's eyes, hoping fervently for any kind of reaction.

The confusion did not clear, but Renard's heart leapt when he felt the tiniest movement of fingers in his palm.

Blood pounding in his ears, he took several breathes to calm himself, to stop himself from whooping out of sheer joy, to control the beast inside him wanting to get free and simply howl with delight. He reached out to the other button and pressed it, calling for the doctor, and sat down at the edge of the bed, still not letting go of his hand.

"Nick?" he whispered, quietly.

No spark of recognition followed. Renard swallowed and tried again.

"Nick, it's me, Renard."

* * *

><p>Doctor Charles Blake was completely spent. Last night had been his second all-nighter in a row, and he was starting to feel its effects. Still, he couldn't be bothered to go back to the cold silent place he called home. And anyways, most of the staff would be here in an hour anyway.<p>

Deciding to close his eyes for a bit, he settled into one of the more comfortable chairs in his office. He knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep, he was much too exhausted for that, but a little shut eye couldn't hurt.

It was merely five minutes later that his pager pinged and he sat back up, rubbing his eyes blearily and unhooking it from his belt.

It was an urgent call to…room 221?

But that was where the comatose detective was!

He stood up, grabbed his coat and hurried out of his office to the elevator.

* * *

><p>Renard was pacing in the corridor, right outside Nick's room.<p>

His heart was still beating rapidly, he still couldn't believe it.

After all these years, all the false alarms, all the crushed hopes, Nick had finally woken up.

Doctor Blake, had taken one look at Nick, and called several nurses and doctors up with various instructions and orders.

Then he had very patiently but firmly told Renard to step out.

Renard smiled. He quite liked the man. He was a perfect blend of professional doctor and sympathetic human being. Dr. Blake had been a newly transferred doctor when Nick had come in, injured and wounded, barely alive. He had been one of the doctors placed on Nick's case, and one of the few that two years later had remained confident that Nick can still recover. After Renard had personally taken charge of Nick's treatment when the state funds had stopped, he had opted for Dr. Blake to be Nick's lead doctor.

Since then and now, they had struck up a steady friendship, both men drawn by their similar character traits of being men of action, rather than words.

Renard had even attended Bobby's funeral, a year ago.

It took several seconds for Renard to realize that the humming noise was his phone vibrating in his pocket, and still in a state of shocked disbelief, he pulled it out and answered it without glancing at the caller ID.

"Hey Captain, how are you?" Hank's gruff voice reached Renard through the haze his mind was enveloped in.

"Hank…" Renard started, and then stopped, not knowing how to tell him. "Hank, you need to come to the hospital."

"Is everything okay?" Hank asked immediately. "Captain, what's wrong?"

Renard recognized the panicked edge and hastened to assure him that nothing was wrong before hanging up, knowing the younger detective would be here shortly.

The tests they were going to perform on Nick would probably take some time, he decided to go and wash up in the toilet. Make himself a little presentable.

Looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, and taking in the haggard appearance, the sunken eyes shadowed by deep dark circles, and hair a complete mess, he allowed himself to ponder on what had been nagging him ever since he had stared into Nick's grey eyes.

_He hadn't recognized him. _

Maybe he was simply disoriented after waking up for so long. Or perhaps Renard had really changed a lot in the last five years; he could easily spot a lot more grey hair than before… or maybe Nick wasn't accustomed to his usually impeccably dressed captain looking like he had just survived an earthquake, or been run over by a truck. Or both.

He sighed, and ran a wet hand through his hair, straightening it some, before washing his face, and straightening and squaring his shoulders.

It didn't matter.

What did matter was that Nick was awake.

* * *

><p>"Blood pressure is low." The nurse informed Dr. Blake.<p>

He shook his head in agreement. "That is to be expected," he replied, holding Nick's wrist in his hand and counting the seconds on his watch.

He looked down at the dazed young man, having taken care of the more immediate concerns. He looked so pale and frail, almost skeletal. Existing on nutrients from a plastic bag for five years had done no wonders to his health. Yet there was something in those grey eyes that reminded Charles of his son…

Ignoring the pang of sorrow in his chest, Charles forced a smile, and signalled a nurse to give him some ice chips. "Hello, it's nice to finally meet you. I'm Doctor Charles Blake. Can you speak?"

Nick nodded slowly.

"Good, how do you feel?"

"Numb." The word came out in a hoarse whisper.

Charles frowned as Nick's confused look changed rapidly into one of full blown panic. "I…I can't move…!"

Charles placed a soothing hand on Nick's forehead. "It's okay. Relax, there isn't anything to be worried about." He spoke quietly, trying to placate the younger man. "You're weak, don't try to move for a while." He didn't see the need to tell him that he couldn't move because of muscle atrophy. "Try to relax. I'll send in Renard."

Nick had calmed down considerably but his eyes still retained the panicked edge. He looked up at the doctor and blinked.

"Who… is Renard?"

Charles looked at the man intently and was about to ask what was the last thing he remembered when Nick prevented him doing so by another question in the broken raspy whisper, and his worst fear was confirmed.

"Who… am I?"

* * *

><p>~tbc.<p> 


	3. Realities

AN: Sorry for the wait guys! And thanks for the support. :)  
>I am no doctor, and in no way a medical pro, but I based Nick's condition on some research I did. So if I got something wrong, don't kill me. :P<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Realities.<strong>

The hall was brightly lit, a large fancy chandelier over the table and the many candles on it, providing enough light to illuminate the entire room. It was an elaborate 19th century dining hall, all dark wood flooring and walls with ornate heavy cupboards housing various lined against one wall, and a mahogany table, large enough to seat up to forty people situated right at the center.

Seated at the head of the table, was a man and on his right a woman, both appearing to be in their forties, elegantly dressed to accentuate their regal features and bearing, and both engrossed in enjoying the various delectable edibles adorning the table.

Their quite conversation and lilting laughter was interrupted by a knock on the magnificent doors, and the entry of a manservant.

"Master, the _Eisbiber_ you wished to see is here." The manservant informed the duo, after a low bow.

"Honey, not at dinner at least." The lady lifted a very prominent chin haughtily in the butler's direction before turning to frown at the man.

"I'm sorry Carmella darling." The man gestured with his fork at the butler to proceed, before smiling at the lady beside him and covering her graceful hand placed on the table with one of his own. "This won't take a minute."

The woman did not stop frowning but she didn't voice any more objections, as several guards brought in a struggling chained man.

"Tell me…," he drawled lazily, picking at his food with his fork, "why I should let you live?" His accent was posh and heavy, and he did not even glancing at the figure that the guards had thrown down in front of the table.

The beaver wesen trembled violently, not daring to look up.

"No answer?" the man asked, smirking. "I was actually expecting a series of requests, some serious groveling and begging, but it seems your life isn't worth a lot to you."

"No, no… please." The man managed to squeak, lifting his head slightly. "Please I'll do anything you ask, have mercy, please…," he trailed off, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Good, that's what I like to hear." The man smiled, his face growing even harder with the gesture. The lady sitting beside him looked up from her meal, surprised.

"What? Really Dazin, he disturbs our meal and you're going to let him live?" the woman pouted.

"No need to get disappointed honey. We still have a lot more to go through." Dazin replied giving, reaching over to give her a kiss on her full lush lips. "I may even let you pick one or two that you don't like and kill them off."

Carmella smiled at him as he looked back at the sniveling wesen on the floor.

"John Oblimeir, you will be told what to do very soon." The man reached and rang the little bell at his elbow, "till then you can enjoy our hospitality."

The guards returned and picking up the man, started to lead him away.

"Take him to the dungeons." Dazin called, causing the wesen, who had quieted down some, to start struggling and crying again.

"Pathetic." The lady commented, apathetically, before raising her glass and sipping her wine. The man simply smirked.

* * *

><p>"You mean he can't remember anything?"<p>

Renard leaned forward in his chair and placed his elbows on the table. Doctor Blake sighed.

"No actually, he does know how to speak, so that suggests that he will remember how to perform everyday actions, like walking, talking, driving… but yes, he does not know who he is, who were his parents, or anything related to himself."

They were sitting in the doctor's office. The doctor's almost insanely brightly lit office. Renard could swear just sitting in the room was causing damage to his retinas. A whole wall of his office was made of glass, as if by allowing enough sunlight into his office, Charles could somehow drive out the shadows in his life.

Renard looked at the tired middle aged man sitting on the other side of the oak table, intently. "And what about Nick's physical condition?"

Charles stood up and walked to the window. "His heart rate is fine, blood pressure is normal. Physically speaking he's alright, except for the muscle atrophy which not moving from bed from five years have caused."

"But we used to move him right?" Renard asked, confused.

Charles turned around to face him. "Yes, but that wasn't enough to stop the muscles from wasting, that just prevented him from getting blood sores or an infection." He explained, coming to stand right besides Renard before sitting on the edge of the table near him. "Look, a physiotherapist will work with him, and with time he will be able to walk, and do everything normally again."

"But it won't be the same…" Renard's voice trailed off as his shoulders sagged.

"No, it won't be the Nick you remember, because even he can't remember who he himself used to be." Charles put a hand on Renard's shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. "But there is a chance that his memory would return, at least partially."

Renard looked up at the doctor hopefully and Charles smiled at him. "Look at it this way: it actually is a good thing right now that he can't remember what happened. From what I've heard, his girlfriend died in that blast right?" On Renard's nod he continued: "Then if he had any recollection of that incident he would have gotten consumed with guilt and instead of working towards physical recovery, Nick would have started regretting the fact that he survived. That would have led him more towards regression than progression."

Renard swallowed and dropped his hands to his laps. He hadn't thought of that.

The doctor did have a point. What Nick didn't remember couldn't possibly cause him any grief right?

God knew the last thing he needed was to bear the guilt of surviving an attack which killed his girlfriend.

"You'll need to be very careful around him, don't talk about his girlfriend or about how or he used to be before." Renard focused in again on the doctor speaking. "He would become frustrated if he couldn't remember what he himself had been like and that would severely hinder his recovery."

Renard nodded his assent; he would have to tell that to the other officers who would want to visit Nick. Though he doubted that was a long list, only Hank and Wu probably. Nick had been quote well liked, but over five years, he had diminished in everyone's memory.

Everyone's except from the memories of those who cared about him.

Those few people had banded together and formed their own team, drawing consolation and hope from each other, helping and supporting each other.

Renard had grown closer to both Hank and Wu in the last few years than he had been in all the time they had spent working for him. At first they were just his subordinates, but now… Now Renard could even call them friends without cringing.

Charles cleared his throat quietly, probably realizing that Renard wasn't listening to him anymore. Renard instantly devoted his entire attention to the doctor.

"I'm sorry, I zoned out for a minute," he apologized, "you were saying?"

"Yes, Nick has expressed a desire to go home. Have you talked to him?" Charles said, smiling understandingly.

"No I haven't talked to him yet. You guys were busy doing tests and all… he wants to go home?" Renard sat up. "But his home was completely destroyed in the blast. Nothing remains of it."

"And even if there was anything left, he would need support, someone to look after him constantly." Charles frowned slightly. "We are talking about a person who can't move a single muscle in his body, and who is suffering from major disorientation and amnesia. He would need all the help, encouragement, and even love that he could get. I would recommend that you talk him out of moving out of the hospital just yet."

Renard nodded, and stood up.

"I'd better go talk to Nick now." He paused and looked the doctor in the eye. "Thank you Charles… for everything."

Charles smiled brilliantly, a smile which made him look younger by years, causing all the hard lines of sorrow and worry to disappear from his face. "I'm glad that Nick made it out fine. The road ahead is not going to be easy Sean and if it had been anyone else in your stead, I would have been worried" But with you I'm perfectly satisfied that he is in more than capable hands."

Renard smiled in return, before turning and walking out of the room.

Charles watched him go with an unusually light heart, the smile still gracing his face. He had often wondered initially how Sean had known Nick. But then the older man's utter devotion to the latter had made things crystal clear to him despite no words ever being exchanged on the subject.

Love was indeed a marvelous thing.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I know I'm a bad person. Life showed up at my doorstep and this got moved to the back seat and for that I'm sorry. Hope there are still some of you reading out there, do drop a word. You'll lighten up my currently very sad life.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Enlightenment<strong>.

Confusion. Panic.

He had no idea where he was, who he was, how long he had been here.

The doctor, Doctor Blake he said his name was, was asking him questions.

Questions he had no answer for.

What is the last thing you remember? Do you remember how you got here? Do you remember what you do?

Remember, remember, remember.

No he did _not_ remember _anything_.

After the initial panic there was nothing but a feeling of… emptiness. Whenever he tried to think of the answers to those questions. A vacant sense of detachment.

As if he was a stranger in someone else's body.

He didn't know anything about himself, so he tried to find out as much he can about the 'enemy.'

All the nurses and doctors were bustling around, taking blood, and arranging IV tubes, all of them taking orders from Doctor Blake. So he concentrated on said doctor. Not on his questions, but on the man himself.

He had greying hair but other than a few worry lines a wrinkle free face so he must be in his late forties.  
>Unkempt shave, rumpled clothes, pant more so than shirt: he hasn't been home in a while, slept in a chair probably.<br>The sneakers though. They were the anomaly. The deviation from the workaholic, dedicated doctor, got old before his time.  
>Black with red stripes, not something a man with such down to earth fashion sense would otherwise wear, and they looked worn out but not so tattered that they can be from his younger days.<p>

He pondered asking, but then decided against it, not wanting to appear intrusive. There was something in the glint of those blue eyes that sparked a memory of long ago. Another man... far away.

It was quite some time before he was led back to his room and a series of MRIs and tests and questions later that he was left alone, with only a nurse sitting at his bedside, and the promise that someone would be here to see him soon.

* * *

><p>Not many things managed to make Sean Renard afraid. He was the protector of an entire city, and it took a lot of pressure to ruffle his feathers. Usually.<p>

Right now however, standing outside Nick's room, with one hand on the doorknob, Renard could not work up the courage to go in and face him.

Renard had grown accustomed to waiting, to praying for a miracle, to hoping and talking to the sleeping man as if he was awake.

Now he had no idea how to actually talk to him when he really was awake and conscious.

Not to mention that said man had no idea who Renard was.

Biting his lower lip Renard reached out mentally for Nick's presence in his mind. The quite hum of Nick's mind was stronger now, more solid. Renard did not tap into the presence as he could have on being given permission, but he just let it engulf his whole mind for a second.

Confusion and mild panic seemed to reach him, even though Nick had not been projecting, not consciously at least.

Knowing that his oblivious mate needed him strengthened Renard's resolve. Nick was confused and needed answers. He took in a deep breath and knocked twice before opening the door.

"Hey again." Renard stepped into the room to find Nick propped up on the bed with the help of cushions.

"Can you give us some time alone?" he asked the elderly nurse sitting by Nick's bedside in case he needed something, and she quietly and quickly exited the room.

Renard observed the still form on the bed as he walked into the room. All the times he had imagined him waking up, some scenarios magical and beautiful with Nick falling into his arms the minute he opened his eyes, and some horrible and mangled with Nick screaming bloody murder on setting sight on Renard, he had never imagined the blank look of confusion and polite hesitant smile with which Nick was looking at him right now.

"Hello…" Nick's voice was still a little raw, but to Renard, who had dreamt about it endlessly when he had been deprived of its soothing lilt, to his ears it was the sound of music.

"Renard. I'm Captain Sean Renard," Renard interjected, when Nick's voice trailed off and his brow furrowed slightly.

"Captain? As in police?" Nick asked.

"Yes, and you are Detective Nick Burkhardt." Renard replied, sitting in the chair besides the bed to come on eye level with Nick.

"I'm a detective… So that makes you my boss, right…sir?" Nick's raspy question had Renard smiling instinctively.

"Yes, technically speaking, I'm the boss." Renard sat down in the chair beside the bed. "Though just Sean or Renard would do," he added softly, hoping that the first name basis would make Nick trust him more easily.

"Sean… alright," Nick said slowly, and looked at Renard expectantly.

Doctor Blake hadn't yet told him anything concrete and Nick was curious. This man, tall military hairstyle, clean shaved, formally clothed in a creased suit, a captain; his boss… He seemed like a good enough person to get answers from.

And besides there was something, an instinct maybe, or a faint shard of his memory returning which did not make Nick wary of the man. He actually felt a lot calmer and grounded ever since that man had stepped into his room.

Renard cleared his throat and broke eye contact for a second, gathering his thoughts. Charles had thought it would be a better idea for Renard to tell Nick himself, so that he might be able to better dispel the questions which were likely to arise. It had seemed like a good idea, but faced with Nick's inquisitive eyes, Renard suddenly found all words leaving him.

How did one tell a man that the fact that he knows nothing about himself was likely to never change?

Still he needed to tell him something. And Nick deserved hearing it from him.

"Nick." Renard said his name as a complete statement, as he looked back into the grey eyes which did not fail to take his breath away as they had so often before. Not letting any of his reluctance or trepidation show on his face he started: "Doctor Blake has performed several tests and he says that there is no lasting brain damage from the injury you suffered." He drew in a long breathe and continued, "However because of the trauma, your brain seems to have repressed all long term memory connected to who you were as a method of coping."

Nick was quite for a minute after Renard stopped talking. "So I'm not brain damaged, but I'm suffering from trauma?" he asked. "So this might not be permanent?"

"It can be a while before you remember." Renard replied gently. "It is also possible that all of it doesn't ever fully return to you." He tried to make his naturally hard voice soft and laid a hand on Nick's arm, the stricken look on the young face clenching at his heart. "But it's important that you work on your physical recovery more that torturing your brain for something it isn't ready."

Renard could see the horde of emotions which Nick was feeling play out on his face. Confusion turned to anger which turned to a look of sorrow and then quiet detachment.  
>The young detective cleared his throat after a few minutes. "Physical recovery? What did the doctor say about that?"<p>

Renard leaned forward in his chair, eyes fixed on Nick's grey orbs. "Your muscles have atrophied but with physiotherapy you can regain almost complete use of your limbs."

"How long?"

"A few months." Renard smiled, hoping that it actually did convey the reassurance he meant to convey rather than just look like as if he was grimacing. "You've got to take it slow, give yourself time to recover."

"Right, take it slow…" Nick said, voice so heavily laced with sarcasm that for a split second Renard felt his heart clench at the thought that the Old Nick really was back. "Why would I want to not take it slow? Lying on my ass with everyone doing everything for me, life's perfect isn't it?"

Renard sighed.

"Nick, I know it's hard. I won't pretend it will get easier, not anytime soon." He stopped until he had Nick who had been resolutely glaring off in the distance not looking at him, meet his eye. "But it's better than being dead."

Nick peered into the eyes of the older man. There was something intense about him, something which drew Nick to him, made him want to believe him. Maybe it was his instinct, but he felt that he could trust this man.

And he had to listen to his gut feeling right? After all he was a cop, even if he did not remember any goddam moment of being one.

"You're right. I'm sorry." Nick looked away for a second and bit his lower lip. "I shouldn't have taken it out on you. It's just… can't really look forward to so many months in this room…"

"Hey, it's okay." Renard shot his reputed 'dazzling' smile at Nick. "You're allowed some crankiness and mood swings… just tell me before hand as soon as you feel the morning sickness setting in."

"Hey!" Nick protested, while Renard just grinned, happy to see his detective return to Renard's favorite petulant expression. But just as suddenly as the mock indignant look in his eye had appeared it vanished and he grew somber. "Look, I know you're my boss and I really shouldn't ask you this, but then again you're a cop and there really is no one else here… how did I get here? Doctor Blake mentioned an accident, what happened to a family, parents…" Nick's voice trailed off as hesitance was replaced by trepidation.

Renard swallowed, nervous. He really did not want to do this part.

How do you tell a man that he had no one left in the world?

He cleared his throat. "Your parents had died when you were 12 Nick. You were raised by your aunt after that and…" he suddenly looked away, wanting nothing more than to escape that analytical gaze, even if just for a second. "And you didn't have any wife or kids."

Nick discreetly let out the breath that he had been holding. "So I was alone in the accident?"

_If he had any recollection of that incident he would have gotten consumed with guilt and instead of working towards physical recovery, Nick would have started regretting the fact that he survived._

Charles' voice sounded in his ears and Renard nodded in reply his heart breaking a little by how relieved the man seemed to being the only one to go through such an ordeal.

He could not know. Not yet anyway.

Knowing would crush him.

"Yes, you were alone at home when the gas leak happened." Renard said, looking down at his hands, not being able to bring himself to look the man his heart claimed as his own in the eye while lying to him.

_When had that become a problem?_ Renard had lied through his teeth to Nick before. Dozens of times in fact...

But there was something disconcerting in the young man's look, that absolute _trust_ in his eyes... Trust that Renard did not deserve.

"Sir, there is someone here to see you." A nurse popped her head inside, only partially opening the door and addressed Renard.

Renard nodded to her and she left. He stood up and straightened his coat, almost grateful to leave Nick for a moment. The Grimm seemed to bring out the strangest of emotions in the usually stoic Grimm. "I'll go see what the matter is, you try to get some rest," he said, looking down at the frail, pale man on the bed.

"Rest? I've had plenty of that." Nick said his tone one of mock enthusiasm. "Let's see if I can do a hundred push-ups till you return."

Renard could not even pretend to be annoyed when an eye roll followed the exclamation. He simply smiled down at the man, "I'll be back in a few."

Before he could think it through, Renard bent and placed a chaste, quick kiss on Nick's forehead, at the brim of his hairline. He straightened up quickly and without a further word, walked out of the room.

* * *

><p>Hank was standing with his back and one foot against the wall besides Wu who was seated on one of the chairs when Renard entered the waiting room.<p>

The nurse had informed him that they had come looking for him, asking if everything was alright. Renard paused in the doorway, collecting the tirade of feeling coursing through him.

If it were left solely up to him, he wouldn't allow anyone to come within five feet of Nick when he was so emotionally vulnerable that even a misplaced word could send him spiraling down memory lane.

But Hank and Wu deserved to know, to talk to him, to help him.

God knows both of them had been hard hit by the incident, Hank even more so than Wu. Nick's former partner had been struck with guilt at not being able to protect his friend better and it had resulted in determined diligence to track down those responsible behind the attacks. Renard had watched theman destroy himself, following up on false leads, going through witness interrogations over and over and over and finally he just couldn't watch one of his best detectives ruin himself like that.

And so one day, eight and a half months after the accident, Renard had taken Hank to tea and told him.

He had told him about the wesen world, about Nick being a Grimm, about being a Regnant himself, about the reapers whom he had affronted by protecting Nick, the reapers who had then retaliated with the attack and how he had tracked down every reaper in Portland and disposed of every single one of them himself.

Hank had been furious.

He had listened quietly while Renard had spoken and only after the Captain was done had he banged his fist on the table so hard the whole café had gone quiet. Then he had started.

Renard had no idea that Hank was so very eloquent when he was pissed. Curses the likes of which even the centuries year old regnant could not have dreamt up had flown from Hank's mouth at such rapid a pace that they had left Renard surprised. He suspected that if they had been somewhere private, Hank would have actually punched him.

It took several days for Hank to come to terms with what he had been told enough to talk to him without snarking, and two whole months before he would talk to Renard about Nick. That was what had had Hank pissed off the most: the fact that Renard could have prevented the attack if he had told Nick about the threats that surrounded him. The detective hadn't questioned whether he was telling the truth, he hadn't even asked for proof. All that he had said was one sentence. One question.

_You knew? And still you didn't do __**anything**__? _

Renard hadn't been able to give an answer to that. It had been a question he had asked himself many, many times. _What if he had told Nick? Could he have convinced him into getting a protection detail? Would things have happened differently?_

Renard shuddered to think what Nick's reaction would be on finding out about him, if Hank's had been so invectively emotive.

He walked into the waiting room, a small smile playing on his lips. Really he had to stop smiling; his cheek muscles were starting to ache. Hank straightened quickly and Wu stood up. The Asian man had been playing with his hands, a nervous tick Renard found extremely telling.

"Captain, is everything alright?" Hank asked his tone fearful. "The nurses told us to wait here, they won't let us go in to meet you, is Nick alright?"

Renard smiled at the storm of questions, "Nick is more than alright, Hank, relax. He woke up a couple of hours ago."

A series of emotions flitted across both the men's faces and Renard studied both their reactions. Wu, who hadn't spoken till now just looked at him with his mouth hanging open; but Hank's face was more expressive: happiness replaced the initial surprise but then that was overcome with fear.

It was however Wu who recovered first. He shut his mouth, swallowed once and fixed Renard with a cautious gaze. "Is he alright?"

Renard ran a hand through his hair. "He can't move, muscle wastage and all and there's no brain damage."

"But you didn't sat he was alright." Hank interjected, and Renard mentally rolled his eyes. Sometimes his detectives really didn't know when to stop 'detecting.'

"No, he isn't." Renard sighed. "He doesn't remember anything."

Wu took in a sharp breathe, but Hank only looked contemplative. "You sure? He could just be confused after waking up after so long and all…"

"He didn't remember his own name Hank." Renard shook his head, hating to crush the hope on the detective's eyes.

"But these things aren't permanent." Wu said, his tone making it a hesitant question.

"Doctor Blake thinks it's a form of PTSD. The brain can't cope with the details of what happened so all the memories have been blocked out." Renard informed them, remembering the long talk he had had with the doctor. "So no it's not permanent."

"Alright, temporary amnesia…" Wu started to say but Hank cut him off.

"What are you not telling us?" he asked, tone suspicious and eyebrows raised.

If it had been anyone other than Nick that they had been talking about, Renard would have been offended at the assumption that he wasn't being entirely honest. But considering the fact that the man's partner had just arose from a coma, he cut the detective some slack and cut off the sharp reprimand that had risen to his throat.

"I'm not hiding anything, but it also isn't as simple as temporary amnesia." Renard said, taking a long breath to calm himself. "Charles says that its best he doesn't remember for now. It'll give his body time to cope before his mind is attacked with the onslaught of guilt and sorrow which remembering would accompany."

This time both the men drew in sharp breaths collectively.

"So you can talk to him, but be careful not to let anything about the accident or Juliette or just about anything that you think could act as a trigger to his memory, slip." Renard looked both his men in the eyes seriously. "This is very important. He cannot be allowed to remember yet, understood?"

He waited for both of them to voice their affirmation before nodding in return. "Good, now go and introduce yourself." He smiled and let both the men pass before settling down on one of the chairs and pulling out his phone.


End file.
